


On Her Satanic Majesty's Secret Service

by OldSwinburne



Category: Doctor Faustus - Christopher Marlowe, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 16th Century CE, Angels, Crossover, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Magic, Multiple Crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 13:29:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20447897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldSwinburne/pseuds/OldSwinburne
Summary: In which Aziraphale and Crowley are given various missions from their respective Head Offices, and, like always, thoroughly bugger things up.





	On Her Satanic Majesty's Secret Service

As any book-loving angel would tell you, the word ‘ethereal’- typically used to refer to part of the Heavenly Host- is etymologically constructed of the words ‘ether’ and the word ‘real’. Therefore, anything sufficiently heavenly is made of less substantial matter than mortal objects, and is fundamentally liable to be changed by human perceptions. As any snake-presenting demon would tell you, the Legions of Hell are typically amorphous, willing to assume whatever shape will best lend to the temptation of mortals. Therefore, the demonic sensibility is fluid and amorphous, able to become anything from a serpent to a swarm of flies to a fatally beautiful woman.

The upshot of this is that the otherworldly realms of Heaven and Hell are fundamentally shaped by the actions of the collective human subconscious. In the office-strewn worlds of the late twentieth century, they resemble a luxurious penthouse suite and a dingy basement respectively; in the glory days of Tudor England, when playwrights told stories of kings and betrayal, the two realms resemble a theatrical stage.

It is to this metaphorical representation of a stage (and beware of metaphor, because it is entirely more real than most things in life) that Aziraphale and Crowley made their way to on one heady summer’s day in the 1530s. So close to the eyes of the heavenly hordes (and the devilish legions), they were unwilling to fraternise too much, and so remained awkwardly apart, resisting their initial instinct to be closer.

“Crowley, Serpent of the Garden,” said Aziraphale, unconvincingly affecting surprise. “Fancy Seeing You Here. I Expect You Have Been Administering Evil in Distant Climes?” Aziraphale stout-facedly ignored the fact that they came in together.

“Indeed,” says Crowley, gesturing dramatically. “We have been engaged---”

“ _ Crowley!” _

“--Engaged in different activities-  _ be patient, angel-  _ and so are surprised to see each other in this place.”

There was a significant pause. Crowley, thinking, adds “Forsooth.”

“That should be enough,” Aziraphale said. “Excellent acting, my dear. “

“See you on the other side?” asked Crowley.

“Just so,” agreed Aziraphale.

The two separated; Aziraphale was winched up into the scaffolding of the stage, before advancing into one of the reserved boxes. Crowley, meanwhile, descended through a trapdoor surrounded by smoke.

Let us follow Aziraphale first.

Aziraphale was ushered by one of the lower angels (the particularly cherubic Ithuriel) into the curtained box. The Archangel Gabriel was watching the celebratory masque on stage through a set of ivory-white opera glasses.

“Aziraphale!” cried Gabriel, embracing the other angel, who squawked as he was pulled into the firm embrace. His smile was intensely friendly, but there was a deep derision behind the eyes. “So good to see you!”

“Gabriel,” croaked a flustered Aziraphale. “Nice to see you too.”

Gabriel patted the bench next to him, and Ithuriel darted forward to place a plush cushion on it.

“You must sit down and watch this new play,” said Gabriel. “Singing, dancing  _ and  _ acting! What will they think of next?”

Aziraphale gulped nervously. The rise of the performance arts had mainly been Crowley’s doing, under the logic that seeing men dressed as women encouraged ‘unnatural lusts’ in those that saw it. Aziraphale himself thought that those lusts were as natural as they came, and could be quite enjoyable in the right circumstances.

“A wonderful display,” Aziraphale managed finally. 

Gabriel gave a deep, booming laugh. Like the performers on stage, it was perfectly reproduced in every way, but it had no emotion behind it.

“I didn’t invite you here to see a new play, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. “I called you here to give you a mission.” “A mission?” warbled Aziraphale. “I love missions. I go on missions all the time.”

“Of course you do. Now, have you heard of the recent Wittenberg graduate, Doctor John Faustus?” “I can’t say I have.”

Gabriel spread a series of pictures, concertina-like, on a nearby table. The pictures were all illustrated in printed engravings, and so were not very accurate; what was apparent, however, was the depiction of a bearded man in a skullcap sketching Kabbalistic symbols on the floor.

“This is the man known as Faust, one of the most intelligent and dangerous men of his generation. He is an occultist and alchemist of almost unimaginable power. Our seers and fortune-tellers state that he could become a force of incredible good… or one of extreme evil.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “That’s a shame.”

“It’s this dichotomy that makes it so important for our purposes that you, Aziraphale, go down there and ensure that he uses his forces for good, to contribute to the Ineffable Plan.”

“Ah, the Ineffable Plan. Yes.”

“Make sure he uses his powers to help people. Rescue cats from trees and stop robberies and so forth.”

“And how exactly am I going to do all that?” Gabriel’s smile, already made of chunks of ice, froze even more. “Do you know what ‘delegation’ is, Aziraphale?”

“No, I can’t say I do.”

“It’s a term I just invented. It means I’m up here, thinking Big Picture stuff, while I let you sort out all of the fine detail. That way, your interdependence and problem-solving skills can flourish. It also means that you can get out of my way, and stop bothering me with your mediocre little life. Understand?” In Gabriel’s office up in Heaven there was a chart on one wall with words like ‘synthesis’ and ‘conflict avoidance’ written in big bubbly letters on it. It was part of a go-getting, fast-talking, forward-thinking managerial initiative that was taking the place by storm.

“So, Aziraphale, that’s what I want you to do. Can you do that? Go down there and spread the Word?”

Of course, it was all lip-service. There would be a hasty discorporation in his future if he refused. Aziraphale managed to unstick his parched lips. 

“Go Team,” he muttered in a funereal tone.

* * *

Crowley, meanwhile, was having a similar strife in Hell, currently located in the passages and rooms below the stage.

Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Duke of the Innermost Pits, was sitting on a makeshift throne sandwiched between two costume racks. Rancid bluebottles crawled over her face.

“Crowley,” buzzed Beelzebub, words forming a powerful vibrato. “You muszzt be wondering why I have zszummoned you here.”

“The question had crossed my mind, yes,” drawled Crowley, peering over the smoked glass of his spectacles. “I presumed it wasn’t just to relish in the pleasure of my company.”

“It iszzss not, Crowley,” said Beelzebub, deliberately overlooking any jokes. “It iszz to iszszue you a miszszzssion.”

“A what?” “A misszzss--- a duty.”

“Ah. Groovy.”

“You shall serve as an assistant to the most evil Devil, the villainous Mephistopheles.”

There was a twitch of the curtain, a rustle of sackcloth, and Mephistopheles swept onto the scene. The demon had a gallant widow’s peak, a sprawling moustache and goatee, and a deep scarlet cape. He posed dramatically, arms outstretched, as a phantom breeze whistled through his hair.

“‘Tis I, the demon Mephistopheles, known to those closest as Mephisto--! Despair, scion Crowley, as I have had Kings and Queens bow down before my wrath. Forsooth-- and those who disagree may taste my blade!!” “Is he always like this?” asked Crowley.

“Yeszzzzzs,” lamented Beelzebub. 

“Gadzooks!” cried Mephistopheles. “Do mine eyes deceive me, but have you not been informed of me and my duty?”

“I can’t say I have,” said Crowley.

“The szsubject is a man named Doctor Fausztusz,” explained Beelzebub, “An academic of no little notoriety. He has been zstudying the demon artszs, and if we can tempt him to szsign hisz szoul, we zshall have him. Otherwisze, he could become one of Heaven’sz greateszt defenderzsz.”

“If we convert him, sirrah, we will strike a blow as mighty as that felled the towers of Babel at Heaven’s gate and win the future war between these two soverign forces,” added Mephistopheles, gurning furiously.

“I see,” said Crowley, who didn’t.

“Your misszzion, should you choose to accept it, is to go down to Fausztussz’ lair with Mephistophelesz, and tempt him to szign away hiszz szoul. But beware-- it is likely that Heaven will be szending their own agentzs to affect thisz outcome.”

Crowley perked up at this. Mentions of Heavenly agents normally referred to Aziraphale, and it was always a pleasure for Crowley to hear about Aziraphale.

“Well, I better get to that,” said Crowley. “Hard at work. A go-getter, that’s me.”

And with that, Crowley nodded, and made his sauntering way back to the mortal realm. 

* * *

Doctor John Faustus, whose experiments with alchemy and the occult was causing such a stir in Heaven and Hell, was currently paging through ancient tomes of magic. His nose was currently in a copy of  _ De Vermis Mysteriis,  _ and his right hand was feverishly making notations on a scrap piece of paper. Faustus was not to be underestimated; he had once been thrown out of the university town of Ingolstadt for the twin charges of necromancy and sodomy, although it was only one that he truly specialised in.

“Master?” asked Wagner, Faustus’ servant. “There is a knocking in yonder door. Three masters of the occult are here to see you.”

“Send them in, Wagner.” This being 1530s Germany, there was no shortage of alchemists, apothecaries and sorcerers. The first one ushered through the door was Renata, a passionate woman from the forests of the Holy Roman Empire. The second was Winzy, a preternaturally young alchemist, whose cloak glittered with stars and the language of strange creatures. And last was a man calling himself A.Z. Fell, who had a sign with the word ‘WIZRD’ hung around his neck.

“Oh, master of the Profess-House,” said Renata. “I have come to discuss matters of ethereal and demonic importance with you.” “My good Doctor Faustus,” said Winzy. “I have a new translation of _El Libro de Arena_ that I believe may cast an alternate explanation on the tenets of hermeticism.”

“I say, my good fellow,” said A.Z. Fell. “Shouldn’t you have second thoughts about this whole ‘harnessing the dark forces of Satan business’, eh?” Aziraphale- for A.Z. Fell was actually Aziraphale, for those of you in the back- was disguised as a Master of the Black Arts, and was doing his level best to persuade Faust to discard his intentions for selling his soul. This ranged from the logical (“I’m sure you could get along perfectly well in your occult research with a soul,”) to the business-like (“If one was to sell one’s soul, I hope one would get an excellent deal!”) to the emotional (“Goodness! I do so love having a soul!”). Faustus, however, clearly had very firm ideas of where he wanted his life to go, however, and so the angel was largely unsuccessful.

Crowley and Mephistopheles, when they attempted to persuade Faustus, were similarly unsuccessful. The two entered Faustus’ sanctum initially disguised as ruffians and thieves- Mephistopheles sporting a particularly dashing eyepatch- before revealing themselves as the demons they were. Even this showmanship did little to effect Faustus’ opinions. The alchemist struck Crowley as an intellectual who was merely trying a new research prospect; the act of Satanism had no moral dimension to him, and was the equivalent of consulting a library with particularly standoffish staff.

It should be no surprise to anyone that Crowley and Aziraphale decided to leverage the Arrangement to help in this task. Many students of popular culture mistakenly think that the cliché of ‘good cop, bad cop’ began in the 70s police shows such as  _ Badge of Honour,  _ but they would be incorrect. The trend actually started here, with the ‘Good Angel, Bad Angel’ skit.

“ O, Faustus,” started Aziraphale, laying it on thick. “lay that damned book aside, and gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul, and heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head! Read, read the Scriptures:—that is blasphemy.”

Crowley snorted- trust Aziraphale to try to redeem a sinner by offering him a reading list. He cleared his throat for his own attempt.

“Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art wherein all Nature's treasure is contain'd: Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky, Lord and commander of these elements.”

_ Enjoy yourself,  _ was what Crowley was trying to say.  _ Go out there and see the world. It’s beautiful, you know-- I helped with the nebulas.  _

“Sweet Faustus, leave that execrable art,” resumed Aziraphale, giving a congratulatory glance to Crowley. Crowley himself thought that ‘sweet Faustus’ was being a bit forward.

“Contrition, prayer, repentance,” questioned Faustus. “What of them?”

Aziraphale scrambled for an answer. “O, they are means to bring thee unto heaven!” he managed.

Crowley snorted. “Rather illusions, fruits of lunacy, that make men foolish that do trust them most.”

“Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and....” Aziraphale scrambled for a conclusion, finishing, rather lamely, with “...heavenly things.”

“No, Faustus; think of honour and of wealth,” advocated Crowley himself, taking the capitalist approach to life.

Their efforts, of course, was for naught. What the assembled gathering of angels and demons had forgotten (or, perhaps, had neglected to learn) is the Fundamental Truth of Humanity; that, given the choice, Man is not liable to commit acts of Great Evil, nor to bestow deeds of Glorious Goodness. Man is neither saint nor sinner; humanity does not play in sides of good and evil, like a great game of cosmic chess, but rather in hundreds of everyday irritants and favours, like a giant game of parcheesi. Faustus was not going to conquer the world in an act of Sin, nor yet save it in a blaze of glory; but he probably was going to try to avoid paying his taxes, or tip the nice waitress at Mrs Miggins’ Pie Shop, or forget to feed the neighbour’s dog, or hire a lute player for his niece’s birthday party. For Faustus led not a life of Good or Evil, but of pure down-the-middle mediocrity, and the world was a better place for it. 

The only ones to be All Good or All Evil were angels and demons, and even then, if you found an angel who had Pride in the contents of his bookshelf, or Gluttony at the prospect of a dinner at the Ritz, or even a fair dose of Lust… or if you found a demon who discovered new ways to make God’s green plants grow, or who worked to bring music and dance to mankind, or even felt a fair dose of Love… Well, they were beginning to sound very Human, weren’t they?

Aziraphale and Crowley were realising this when Faustus attended the court of Don Carlos, leader of the Holy Roman Empire. The Holy Roman Empire spanned hundreds of souls, eating up much of continental Europe like a big eating thing (as Crowley told Aziraphale three-fifths of the way into a bottle of Italian Cabernet). It wasn’t Holy, as it didn’t have one unified religion; it wasn’t Roman, as Italy was located in a separate state; and it wasn’t an Empire, as, politically speaking, it more heavily resembled the United Nations. It was, however, ruled over by corrupt adventurer Don Carlo, who administered his Germanic state with a proprietary air. 

When Don Carlo asked for Faustus to demonstrate his abilities (“You come here on the day my daughter is to be married and you do not have anything to show me, hmm?”) the court was silenced with a low susurration. They watched as Faustus summoned the shade of Helen of Troy, to the oohing of several courtiers and angels in the audience.

“Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?” Faustus intoned dramatically. 

“No it’s not! It looks nothing like her!” shouted Crowley, who had actually met Helen.

“Oh, shush, Crowley. I want to see the show,” muttered Aziraphale.

They watched silently as Faustus triumphantly made a balloon animal, and gave it to a nearby child. The child seemed somewhat discomfited, as, this being 1536, the balloon was made entirely out of pig bladders.

“He’s very good,” said Aziraphale, weakly.

“He’s not supposed to be  _ very good.  _ He’s supposed to change the balance of occult power for evermore, ushering in a new aeon of dark powers and eldritch woes.” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, suddenly bashful. “Or angelic light and, err, fairy sparkles, I suppose.”

“Yes, well, maybe he’ll get around to that in time. I suppose this children’s party practice is just his way of paying the bills.”

At this point, Faustus had progressed to card tricks, and dramatically pulled a folded-up Ace of Clubs from behind the ear of Duke Ferdinand of Calabria. There was a low susurration of polite applause.

“It’s sad, I suppose,” said Crowley, in a maudlin mood. “All this potential, this push for greatness-- and really, he’s happier just putting on a show for a captive audience. He could have been the next Merlin, a modern-day Solomon the Wise, but instead he just wants to entertain.”

“That’s humanity for you. They’d rather be loved and love others then conquer the world.”

There was an awkward silence as both Aziraphale and Crowley studiously avoided each other’s looks.

“Nothing like demons, of course.”

“No, of course not. From completely different ethereal stock, angels.”

There was another awkward pause. Faustus was pulling a string of handkerchiefs out of his sleeve.

“I say,” said Aziraphale, suddenly struck with an idea. “I don’t suppose I could turn my hand to this form of magic? I daresay it would be an icebreaker at those literary soirees I go to. And it would entertain the children.”

“I’m going to nip this one in the bud, angel. No self-respecting Principality should turn their hand to parlour tricks, when they can just use miracles to sort the problem out. You’re better than that.”

“I suppose,” said the angel, although he was still looking longingly at Faustus’ performance.

Crowley found himself slightly wounded at Aziraphale’s fascinated expression (although he didn’t know why), and said, not a touch bitterly, “You never invite me to those ‘literary soirees’.”

“Sorry?”

“These soirees you need an icebreaker for. I’m never invited to them.”

“My dear fellow! I didn’t think you’d be interested! You’re always poking fun at my book collection, and when my playwright friends come over, you always give them a rough time. Take that nice rakish adventurer fellow, Jack Wilton- he’d just composed a rather lovely madrigal for me, and you pushed him into the lake.”

“I’m a demon,” defended Crowley, waving his hands about frustratedly. “It’s what I do. And besides, Wilton was a toadying little upstart who had no business writing poems about all and sundry. Should leave that for other, more qualified people. As for the parties, I don’t necessarily want to go, but-- it’d be nice to be invited, that’s all.”

There was a pause, while both parties acknowledged the paradoxical nature of the sentence, while stubbornly refusing to examine the deeper feelings behind it.

“You should have said, Crowley. I didn’t-- I mean, I wasn’t going to--”

Aziraphale said, and laid a hand tenderly on Crowley’s arm.

“I mean, after all this is over, do you want to get dinner sometime?”

“Fine. But you’re buying, angel.”

They dined together at Mrs Miggins’ Pie Shop; Faustus, they decided, could sort himself out. Free Will was a glorious thing, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> In Doctor Faustus there are several scenes where a Good Angel and a Bad Angel try to persuade Faustus one way or another, this being the origin of the 'angel/demon on shoulders as metaphor for conscience'. And really, who are better Good and Bad Angel duo than Aziraphale and Crowley? 
> 
> Some dialogue is taken from the Marlowe play.
> 
> This was originally going to be titled 'The Merrie Comedie of the Redemption of Doctor Faustus' after a throwaway reference in Neil Gaiman's Sandman, but I decided against it.


End file.
